On the Side of the Angels
by GateGremlyn
Summary: John is left behind.


As a tag to a recent episode, there will obviously be spoilers in this fic, so read at your own risk.

episode tag to_ The Reichenbach Fall _

The funeral was over. Mycroft had come, as John expected, and they hadn't looked at or spoken to one another. John wanted to kill him, but one funeral at a time was more than enough—and there would be time for that later. Lestrade came in black, not wearing his badge on his jacket. He was there as a friend. John came in black, wearing Holmes' tie pin. "He would have wanted you to have it," Mrs. Hudson told him. It wasn't true, of course, because Holmes hadn't wanted the damn thing in the first place: "I don't wear ties." John remembered his own words back, "Just say thank you," and choked out the same words to her.

Molly hadn't come. John missed her but didn't blame her.

Mrs. Hudson cried and Lestrade held her because John couldn't. He stood apart, listening to the words of an overstuffed clergyman who spoke of "this mortal coil" with its trials and tribulations, who spoke of angels and demons, of light and darkness, of this life and the hereafter. They, and the four pallbearers (members of the church, at a guess) were the only people at the funeral. Mycroft, out of a sense of guilt, had honored John's request and kept the funeral to this handful.

John had seen far too much of death to believe in an afterlife, and far too much of Sherlock Holmes to believe he'd get there if there was one. The words of the service washed over him, an irritant and not a benediction. In this life... in _this _life, he was now alone. A brilliant mind and a brilliant friend was gone, gone to the dust from whence he came. "Ashes to ashes..."

He looked about, wondering if the greenery, the trees, the isolated and peaceful landscape would provide its own irritant for Mr. Sherlock Holmes who did not value or want a peaceful, boring life—or death. The man who once channeled his limitless energies into drumming his fingers, or playing the violin, or searching for a cigarette, or solving a case was stilled... silent... and gone. And he'd be angry as hell to find himself plunked down in a little country churchyard.

Sherlock had told him once, in an moment of relative quiet, about Moriarty's description of the "boring" Mr. Holmes, and they'd laughed about it. "On the side of the angels," Moriarty had said. John had almost spilled his tea, and Sherlock, whose feet were propped up on the side table, had given him that rare quirk of a smile.

"No angel that I've ever know," John told him. "Brilliance does not equal virtue."

"How many angels have you known?" Sherlock asked. "As a standard of comparison, of course."

"None," John said. "And I don't intend to start now."

"But we are agreed on the brilliant?"

"Was there any doubt, Sherlock—even if you are an ass?"

"No doubt at all, John." He took up the violin and began to play.

No doubt at all, John thought.

He, Lestrade, and the four strangers came forward to lower the coffin into the grave. He watched it inch down. Had Sherlock been an angel, he would have spread his wings and flown away from the hospital rooftop, not fallen to his death. He would not be here, falling into the earth. The coffin jerked as John's fingers slipped on the strap. They all stopped; no one spoke. He took a deep breath and evened out the coffin, letting it down again until it touched the bottom with a hollow thud.

The minister's words garbled together, and all he could hear was Sherlock pleading with him: "Just do as I ask. Please!"

As a doctor, he knew something about grief. He knew about anger and denial, about depression and acceptance—although he didn't think he would ever accept that Sherlock Holmes had killed himself. Never. His friend was _not_ a fake, not a fraud. John's denial of any of it wouldn't make a difference; Sherlock was still dead.

Like most of those left behind, he wished he'd said more, done more. He wished he'd listened to himself and stayed at the hospital. What had he'd told Sherlock—the last thing he ever said to his best friend? What were those prophetic words spoken in anger and now come back to mock him? "Friends protect people." He should have stayed and protected what they had. But he hadn't and now...

Well.

Mycroft was not the only person dealing with guilt.

He supposed—he hoped-that someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes had eventually figured it out, what their friendship was to both of them.

He turned. Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade were halfway to the church, Mycroft and the minister behind them. The pallbearers had vanished into the landscape.

He was alone.

He stood at the graveside, waiting for the angels.

~::~


End file.
